Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC
by cto10121
Summary: Pairings that would make Charles Dickens turn over in his grave, pairings that would strike fear into the hearts of braver men. Beware; nothing is sacred! Featuring Sydney/Madame Defarge, Sydney/Darnay/Lucie, and, hopefully, more. OOC and AU.
1. SydneyMadame Defarge

**Disclaimer: Charles Dickens is one of the greatest writers in literature. I am a fifteen year old with bad acne and a sadistic streak. Two images that are in no way compatible with each other...**

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**Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC**

Chapter One: Sydney/Madame Defarge

Sydney Carton was walking along St. Antoine, narrowly avoiding the small puddles of blood that had gathered in the irregular stone pavement, for no particular reason whatsoever. He was passing by the Defarges's wine shop when all of a sudden Madame Defarge herself came out the door with a dull, hoarse tinkle of the bell. She was wearing a dark red evening gown the exact same color as the blood, cut low to show off her ample bosom, her usually stout waist painstakingly molded into an hourglass figure by a corset, her hair pulled sharply into a fancy, glossy bun. Strangest of all were her hands – they were empty of any shrouds, scarves, or even a knitting apparatus. She just stood there, smiling beguilingly at him. Sydney, upon looking at her, thought she looked vaguely different.

"Hello, Sydney," she said. Her voice was low and seductive, almost a purr.

Sydney had a big question mark on his face. Madame Defarge, as far as he could tell, had never addressed him by his Christian name. In fact, he wasn't even sure, until now, that she had known he even existed. But nevertheless, he decided to be polite. "Hello, Madame."

"Thérèse," she corrected, with another seductive, though slightly eerie smile. Sydney took an unconscious step back, which was a mistake – his shoes became stained with blood. Plus, Madame Defarge's smile widened a couple of molars.

"Why don't you come inside, ma chérie?" she suggested huskily. "My husband won't mind, as he is conveniently absent." She sauntered forward until she was less than a foot away from Sydney. She put a manicured hand on his chest, and every thought in Sydney's head suddenly ceased to be. "I insist."

Sydney didn't know what made him do it – whether it was her hypnotizing voice, her warm smile, or her dangerously low cleavage – but he felt himself nodding. Madame Defarge looped her arm around his, and together she and Sydney entered the wine shop, with blood pounding in Sydney's ears.

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**A/N: Reviews are better than Madame Defarge seducing Sydney Carton. **


	2. SydneyDarnayLucie

**Disclaimer: A tragic poem of the highest literary caliber: **

**Charles Dickens  
Has no chickens  
Just like I  
Have no alibi  
For saying  
And claiming  
I own ATOTC -  
But it's not meant to be.  
O, woe is me! **

**Oh sarcasm. How I do love thee... **

**Anyway, thanks for the (two) people who reviewed and for the eleven hits and I hope more people will review this chapter...**

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**Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC**

Chapter Two: Sydney/Darnay/Lucie

Sydney Carton glared at Charles Darnay. Charles Darnay glared at Sydney Carton. They both glared at each other, both consumed by a natural dislike of each other.

It was very clear why they harbored such antagonistic feelings for each other. On Sydney's part, it was because Darnay, though they shared many physical characteristics, was a well-respected French gentleman while Sydney was a lazy, drunken British lout. Plus the fact that he fancied Lucie, which put him on top of his "People To Dislike" list. Jealous? Maybe withholding a secret admiration of Darnay? Ha! Preposterous. Ridiculous. _So _not true. And if Sydney kept repeating that to himself, he could will it to be true.

On Darnay's part, he thought that Sydney was a rather disagreeable fellow with dubious moral caliber and – even though it is known that Darnay is not the sharpest crayon in the box nor the sharpest tool in the shed – it didn't escape his notice that Sydney seemed somewhat inclined toward Lucie. Somewhat.

So, with both of them having a more-than-slight dislike of each other, it wasn't clear why they were together, breathing the same air. It was known, however, that Lucie had told them separately to meet her at the Seine, without giving the slightest indication that their rival will also be coming as well. How such an underhanded tactic could have occurred in Lucie's pretty little flowerpot head remained to be seen but regardless – Sydney and Darnay were there, waiting, suffering the indignity of having to breathe the same air.

They didn't suffer for long, for then came Lucie Manette, purifying the decrepit air with her sweet, innocent charm and making it breathable again. Sydney and Darnay took liberal deep breaths.

"Good evening, gentlemen," greeted Lucie, and the two returned the salutation.

"May I ask why you have asked us to come here, Miss Manette?" ventured Darnay politely, putting a shadow of emphasis on _us_.

In a rare moment of perceptivity, Lucie caught the inflection. "Pray excuse me for divining such a ruse," she apologized. "But I had to talk to you two and I knew that there was a possibility – no matter how slight – that you two would reject my invitation had you known that another – most disagreeable to you – could come."

Lucie paused, as though waiting for the sure-to-be fervent and vehement protests to arise. _Oh no, Miss Manette, we would have come, regardless! _But there was none but silence.

"I have thought," Lucie continued, "and thought well about the two of you, and of your courtships."

Sydney and Darnay started at this; they hadn't known that the other had too expressed a liking for Lucie. They shot covert, though nasty looks at each other.

"I then came to the conclusion that I like you both fairly well," said Lucie, ignoring Sydney and Darnay's twin (no pun intended) looks of shock. "To choose would be exceedingly difficult. And that is why I thought of a logical, practical solution that I think is quite reasonable, and that will make all of us happy in the long run. What I am talking about is a possibility of a threesome."

Did the world stop rotating on its axis, or did aliens just crash land in some obscure location on earth? Sydney and Darnay would have thought so, they were so shocked at Lucie's bold and (frankly) uncharacteristic idea.

"A-A threesome?" Darnay said weakly.

"A _threesome_?" Sydney was incredulous.

"Yes," said Lucie serenely, as though she was commenting on the weather, or suggesting a threesome. "Isn't that the perfect solution? No trifling jealousies, no heartbreak – everyone gets who they want."

Sydney and Darnay exchanged glances. It was clear that the concept disturbed them greatly, but it was also as clear that they were secretly considering it. Looking at each other's faces, they were forced to acknowledge, once again, that they looked extremely alike. And for once, this fact wasn't unpleasant. Huh. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

_Didn't Narcissus fall in love with his own reflection? _Sydney thought as he looked at Darnay's handsome face. _So, really, it's not so objectionable. After all, I'm already a lout as it is. What's one more character flaw? _

_He looks so like me, _mused Darnay as he stared at Sydney's ruggedly (and equally) handsome face. _It will be easy – like masturbating! _

"All right," said Sydney and Darnay simultaneously. They looked strangely at each other, and at their unexpected concurrence.

Lucie beamed, and for a moment she looked positively angelic. "Splendid! Let us celebrate. There's a nearby hotel, I believe. Let's go there."

And the three of them, linking arms like in the _Wizard of Oz_, skipped down the proverbial yellow brick road, unto a new adventure full of fun, excitement, and discovery.

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**A/N:…And plenty of hot steamy sex. :D **

**Yes, very AU and OOC. Didn't say I warned you. Short too, but didn't want to elaborate much. To do so would be making the characters even more OOC. **

**Reviews are _way _better than Sydney, Darnay, and Lucie...getting it on. *shivers delicately***


	3. SydneyDarnay

**A/N: Blame my dirty mind. Seriously. What was I on?! **

**Disclaimer: A limrick for your thoughts: **

**There once was a man named Dickens  
****Who owned a lot of chickens.  
****Then a girl appeared there  
****With a lot of brown hair  
****Who shouted, "GIVE ME YOUR CHICKENS, DICKENS!"  
****The chickens? No, Dickens! **

**Thanks for the reviews and enjoy!**

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**Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC**

**Chapter Three - Sydney/Darnay**

"Do you think I particularly like you?"

It all started with that innocent - albeit insolent and belligerent - question. Sydney and Darnay were dining together...well, Darnay dining and Sydney not so much eating as taking great liberal drinks from his glass. They were celebrating Darnay's aquittal and (secretely) Sydney's unnoticed triumph. Sydney, apart from being a little drunk, had a little buzz in his head, and he fancied fleetingly that it was that of a bumblebee buzzing around, searching for an exit and not finding any. Slinking lazily in his chair, he gazed at least steadily at Darnay, who was upright and eating actual solid substances.

"Really, Mr. Carton," said Darnay uneasily. "I have not asked myself the question."

"Well, ask the question now." Sydney took another liberal swing of his wine. "By the by, it's Sydney."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are acquainted, are we not?" Sydney asked rhetorically. "And I seem to be in a rather amicable mood this evening. Besides, I wish it."

These three reasons, Darnay noted, were not really reasons at all, but nevertheless he was silent. Sydney too didn't know what in heaven's name induced him to get on first name terms with this_...person_. It was the wine, he knew; his feelings towards Darnay were far from being amiable. Nevertheless, he didn't rectrify his offer; even drunken, lazy, underrated, and unappreciated geniuses had their pride and he wasn't about to sacrifice his any time soon.

"Indeed" was Darnay's mere reply, though he looked very uncomfortable. "And in response to your prior question," he continued, stronger now, "I believe you do. Like me, that is."

Sydney's hand, who had automatically grabbed his glass again, paused in the middle of raising it to his lips. In typical Sydney fashion, he arched a fine eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed Darnay.

"Is that so?" Sydney's tone was more than amused; it was derisive.

Darnay stiffened, but nevertheless held his composure. "That is my earnest, sincere opinion, Mr. Carton."

Sydney stared at Darnay for a few moments and all was silent in the room. Then he began chuckling.

"I implore you," said Darnay agitatedly, "what is so funny?"

"Oh, Mr. Darnay," he said, smiling. "You're just as I had figured."

"What ever do you mean?"

"From the moment I first saw you, I knew you to be one of _those _men. Prim and straitlaced, stuffed men full of morals and honor and disgusting idealism and sickening optimism. No wonder you were acquitted; it was ridiculously simple to prove your innocence. By God, look at the state of your glass!" Sydney looked disdainfully at said glass. "It's _full to the brim_." He spat out the words as though they were poison.

"Is that such a crime?" Darnay asked, a bit disconcerted by Sydney's speech.

Sydney gave his signature half-smile, half-smirk again. "A _crime? _Of the highest sort! No self-respecting gentleman would ever leave his glass full if one is planning to get splendidly smashed. You know what you are, my dear Darnay?" He paused dramatically. "A _fop_. That's what it's called - a fop."

Darnay at this point realized the state of Sydney's sobriety, or lack thereof, and decided to stay silent.

"Come," said Sydney, pushing the bottle of port towards him. "Drink up, drink up! A loosening here and there won't do you any harm."

"I'm afraid I can't," Darnay protested, starting to rise. "I believe I must retire -"

"Nonsense, stay," said Sydney breezily, but the command was there in his eyes. "Indulge me, if you please. Relax. Take a couple of drinks - ah, a toast!" He grabbed his glass, and after a hesitant pause, Darnay followed suit.

"Let's have another toast to Miss Manette," proclaimed Sydney, raising his glass."To the substance of dreams!"

Darnay's heart thumped unevenly at the mere sound of her name. "To Miss Manette, again," he echoed. They both downed their glasses - Darnay in three gulps, Sydney in one.

"Now," said Sydney, pouring some more wine in their glasses. "Care to think of several other things to toast for?"

**(An hour and fourty-seven minutes later)**

"To Mr. Stryver!" Darnay choked out, raising his wobbling glass unsteadily. His resemblance to Sydney became so uncanny that a passersby who happened to see them would've sworn they were twins.

"The big dolt!" Sydney chimed in, "the pompous ass who never stopped shouldering his way round in all things save in the matters of drinking. Let's give it to the great lout!"

Their glasses clinked together in perfect harmony and they downed them all in one gulp.

"Really, though, he did save my life," mumbled Darnay, a little incoherently.

"Nonsense, I did," said Sydney breezily, not at all disturbed about giving away that piece of information. "Stryver just took all the credit."

"Then let me properly thank you," said Darnay, a little clearer now. "By making another toast!"

"That's the spirit!" cried Sydney gaily, filling up the glasses. "Let's see...who to toast for?"

"Someone different," Darnay suggested. "I think we're becoming a trifle redundant."

Indeed, there were running out of things to toast for and Darnay's statement was a gigantic understatement, though nevertheless true. They've toasted 1, 234 times to Miss Manette, 40 to Mr. Stryver, 360 to Mr. Manette, 56 to John Barsad, 30 to Roger Cly, 70 to the Judge, 40 to that man who they couldn't remember his name (Crumcher? Crutcher?), 141 to Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross ("May they shag each other and have plenty of children ad infinitum) and 460 to (for some strange reason) bananas. Or at least, those were the figures Sydney's drunken mind provided.

"Oh, I know!" Darnay suddenly brightened up. "I would like a toast to...you, Sydney!"

Sydney blinked, and for a moment he sobered up. "Me?"

"Yes," said Darnay, raising his glass, "for being such a good, honest friend, and for rectifying my fop-status accordingly. I do not know what I would've done if it weren't for you."

"Probably continued on your fopish ways," agreed Sydney solemnly. "But now you're one of us - a respectable bum." They raised their glasses.

"To Sydney!" said Darnay cheerily, "that of the beautiful eyes!"

"To me!" echoed Sydney, "because I have beautiful eyes."

And they drank their glasses in solemn tribute to Sydney of the beautiful eyes. A thousand bumblebees buzzed around Sydney's head.

"No, really," said Darnay, his face red...er, redder than it already was. "You have the most exquisite eyes I've ever saw."

"Oh stop," Sydney giggled. "You're making me blush." And indeed, he was.

"I'm serious."

And all of a sudden, Darnay's face was only a few inches away from his, looking unusually (in his drunken state) earnest. Sydney blinked his blurry eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. But Darnay's face was still there. Sydney wondered vaguely whether it was courtesy that induced Darnay to compliment him, because in Sydney's very own opinion, Darnay's eyes were the epitome of loveliness - not noticing, of course, that his and Darnay's eyes were the exact same shade of color - aquamarine blue. So beautiful...Sydney's vision began to blur...he felt something much sweeter than wine touch his lips, and then Sydney knew no more.

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Sydney groaned, his eyes blinded by the bright sunlight. There was a deep, intense throb in his head, like a thousand needles pressing against his skull at the same time. Must have overindulged last night. Usually he knew his limits and stopped short of getting royally smashed. He groaned again, sitting up feebly and rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He looked around and saw that he was still in one of the rooms of the Old Bailey. How strange - he didn't go home? Ah well.

He sat up and stretched languidly. To his surprise, though, he noticed that he was naked, which surprised Sydney greatly. When he was drunk, he was more of a brooder, and he didn't make a habit of visiting prostitutes. He refused to sink as low as that. But he did remember kissing someone...someone who had kisses sweeter than wine **(1)**....

Vague memories began to unfold...him asking Darnay to dine with him...accusing Darnay of being fop...them drinking together...a toast to his supposedly beautiful eyes...

Sydney froze, eyes wide. No...it couldn't be...it was impossible. He then slowly, painstakingly turned his head to the side of his bed, fearful of what he would find there. There was Charles Darnay, naked and fast asleep, right beside him. Sydney turned his head away from the eye-blinding sight and said the first thing that popped into his mind:

"Oh _shit_."

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**(1) "Kisses Sweeter Than Wine" by Andy Williams. I just couldn't resist making a reference. **

**A/N: Reviews are better than waking up beside a naked Darnay. *shudders***


	4. MrLorryMiss Pross

**A/N: And so I'm back...well, not entirely. I personally don't like this chapter, to be polite. In fact, I would prefer to set it on fire and throw it in the Grand Canyon. But seeing as I am a dutiful author, I will post this up for whatever scrap of entertaining you can possibly derive from this. **

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews! They are my fuel. :D **

**Disclaimer: If I were Charles Dickens, I would have the writing skills to actually make this funny. **

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**Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC**

Chapter Three: Mr. Lorry/Miss Pross 

"Oh! My Solomon, my dear Solomon!"

John Barsad cursed inwardly. Damn. It was too much to hope for that no one would recognize him while in France. But his own sister? Someone up there was after him somehow. Of all the dirty rotten luck.

"You are mistaken, miss," he replied through gritted teeth, his beady eyes traveling restlessly around the tavern. "Now, if you'll excuse me –"

"No, don't go, Solomon!" Miss Pross cried passionately, tugging his arm. "OH, after such a long time, I'd never thought I would lay eyes on my beloved brother again!"

"Miss Pross, please contain yourself," implored Mr. Lorry in an oddly strained voice, laying a gentle hand on Miss Pross's plump arm. Jerry, who had also come along, stared at Barsad curiously. Barsad didn't like that look on his face…

There was a curious buzz in the onlookers. Barsad looked around, almost fearfully.

"Let's to a more private avenue," he growled and started off, with Miss Pross, Mr. Lorry and Jerry Cruncher on his heels. It wasn't until they were a safe distance from the crowded tavern that Barsad stopped.

"What do you want?" he asked insolently.

"See here," Mr. Lorry reprimanded. He moved agitatedly, staring very coldly and agitatedly at Barsad. "How most discourteous you are to this gentlewoman! Apologize at once."

"Oh, Mr. Lorry, it's Solomon, my brother Solomon!" cried Miss Pross joyously, wringing her hands. "But oh, how unkindly he treats me! Is it not fair for his sister – a sister who has mourned the absence of her brother – to request a proper greeting from her estranged brother whom I hope is not angry at me for some disservice or insult that caused him to leave?"

It was a testimony of Miss Pross's good heart (and the most bitter irony), as the truth was that her brother had spent all her money and abandoned her, wringing her dry of every possession she had. Mr. Lorry, who knew this all too well, turned a nasty shade of red.

"Fine," Barsad said grudgingly, pecking Miss Pross briefly on the cheek. "There. Are you satisfied?"

A look of hurt crossed Miss Pross's countenance as she shook her head slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. Mr. Lorry had had enough.

"Mr. Solomon, you are behaving in a very shoddy manner towards your sister," said Mr. Lorry coldly, enunciating every syllable clearly, to show his very apparent disgust at Barsad's disgusting behavior.

"Who are you to meddle in my familial affairs?" snapped Barsad, looking very distrusting at Mr. Lorry. "You and your other companion?"

"I am Mr. Jarvis Lorry," said Mr. Lorry, drawing himself up.

"Jerry," muttered Jerry, then narrowed his eyes at him. "Say, ain't you called John?"

But Barsad, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross all ignored him. Barsad took a step toward Mr. Lorry until he towered over Mr. Lorry.

"Well, Lorry," sneered Barsad. "What are you going to do about it, then?"

It was then that Mr. Lorry finally snapped. The sight of Miss Pross's anguished face and tear-filled eyes, her brother's haughty and disinterested face, Jerry gaping like an idiot…the last of Mr. Lorry's patience finally crumbled like sand. Blood rushed to his head and pounded in his ears, effectively and conveniently eliminating all reasonable and logical thought. The little cautious, prudent voice in his head that was usually so quaint and benign turned into a mean, vicious little mini-Vengeance, and started shrieking deafeningly at him. For once in his life Mr. Lorry grew a backbone, completely forgot about the integrity of Tellson's Bank, and was finally mad enough to kick someone's ass. Which he did – promptly.

His fist flew back and hit Barsad right in the mouth with a satisfying _wham_ – even though Mr. Lorry had never done such a thing in his life, it must be noted that he has a splendid right hook – and Barsad's right incisor flew out of his mouth, and Barsad himself landed on his back, out cold. The small crowd that had gathered around him gasped theatrically at what had just occurred. Jerry stared at Mr. Lorry as though he'd grown horns on his head, that or actually beat the crap out of someone. But it wasn't until Miss Pross's earsplitting scream that made the red haze covering Mr. Lorry's vision disappear.

"Oh dear," he gasped mildly, looking down at the unconscious Barsad, who was bleeding from his mouth. In truth, he wasn't that much shocked at his uncharacteristic behavior; he still felt the deep, thrilling satisfaction of finally letting out all his anger and frustration by beating up a person who is a bit of a bastard and whom no one really likes anyway.

"Oh my Lord," exclaimed Miss Pross. Her eyes were as wide as saucers and staring. "That…that was…"

Mr. Lorry felt his heart stop. This was it. He was going to get it. He braced himself for the impact, mentally wincing as he recalled how easily she had thrown him to the wall when he had told Lucie about her father. Only this was going to be ten times worse, for he had knocked out Miss Pross' long-lost brother whom she still inexplicably cherished an affection for even after he robbed her blind.

"…The best, most courageous thing I've ever seen you do," finished Miss Pross.

Wait, what? Mr. Lorry and Jerry both gaped at Miss Pross. Her eyes were shining with tears, but tears of jubilation. Her plump countenance glowed at Mr. Lorry, and she clasped her hands together.

"M-my dear Miss Pross," stuttered Mr. Lorry, not knowing what to say.

"It's about time that you were a man!" cried Miss Pross, full of emotion, completely forgetting her previous affection for her brother. "When we first met you were as limp as a dishrag with the courage of one. Now that you've attained some testosterone, you can now do what you've been destined to do ever since I knocked you aside with one hand – court me!"

And with that she launched herself onto Mr. Lorry like a leech, only instead of sucking blood she was sucking face – with unladylike gusto and with a distinct unladylike manner she firmly pressed her lips against his. Mr. Lorry, faced with this attack, promptly forgot about everything, even Tellson's Bank (which was seldom occurence) and decided to forego any reason or logical thought to reciprocate.

Jerry could only stare, aghast at this uncharacteristic (and more than slightly disturbing) public display of affection. His mouth dropped a couple of notches before it closed.

"Well," he said slowly, in his Jerry way. He removed the cap from his head so he could scratch it thoughtfully. "That was unexpected, that was."

"Indeed it was," said Sydney Carton, who appeared out of thin air.

"Where'd you come from?" asked Jerry, surprised. "I thought you were in London."

"Blame the character's strike," replied Sydney, before promptly disappearing again.

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**A/N:…There's a character strike? That would explain the OOC-ness…**

**So yes. Not my best. But then again, this was a bit hard to write as this pairing could actually be possible if Dickens had the time to write, "Oh, and by the way, and Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross get it on." Yes…blame my running out of ideas. So if you would be so kind as to drop a little suggestion via…ah, reviews! Marvelous idea, that. ;) **

**Next up: Sydney/Lucie! Only with a twist...**


	5. SydneyLucie

**A/N: Ooh! A somewhat early update! Let's hear it, folks. This is once-in-a-lifetime. *Applause* Now, let's get this show on the road! Thanks for all the lovely reviews and suggestions! You guys are simply wonderful. **

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Dickens, except for Sydney Carton. Wait, that's not right...**

**

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****Pairings That Will Never Happen In ATOTC**

Chapter Five: Sydney/Lucie 

Pandemonium erupted when the tumbril came rolling along the cobbled streets, carrying the daily wine for La Guillotine, who seemed to tower above everyone, magnificent and terrible. The onlookers jeered at the detested, death-marked occupants, and the cheer went up again: Liberté, égalité, fraternité, o la Mort!

Sydney Carton stared calmly at the red sea of fiery revolutionaries, seemingly not to hear the jeers, the insults, and the expletives hurled at him. He seemed to exude a certain aura of sereneness and confidence. The unnamed seamstress was beside him, trembling slightly, clutching Sydney's arm. They were both going to meet with Death.

"You comfort me so much!" the seamstress was saying, a sigh in her tone. Even now her eyes gazed at him with undisguised awe. "I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?"

Sydney looked at the sweet, bright face before him and felt his heart swell with a kind of tender happiness that seemed to buoy him up. Had he really met her just a few hours before? He felt as though he'd known her forever. It didn't cross his mind that this was perhaps rotten timing, as they were both going to die, to fall in love with someone whom he didn't know, having no idea of even her name, her life, whether she snores in her sleep, nothing of such importance. But frankly, my dear reader, he didn't give a damn.

"Yes," he answered tenderly. Bugger it all. They will at least meet and court each other in Heaven. They'll have all the time in the world then.

The soft creature smiled and kissed his lips, and he in turned kissed hers. The moment lingered, a bright murky brown spot against the sea of red and the looming precipice of Death that was La Guillotine.

"Bless you, monsieur," whispered she.

"Bless you, dear one," was his rejoinder.

He let go of her hand (only realizing that they were holding hands until that moment) and, upon his release, as pleased to see that it wasn't quivering anymore. She was next, just a foot away from the insatiable Guillotine. Sydney watched her calmly, knowing that he would soon be following after her.

Then everything went to the shittake mushrooms. Or the cows. Or both.

"Stop, citizens, in the name of the Republic! We've been deceived!"

A man came up just then, swinging his legs up easily onto the platform. He was dressed in ragged, coarse clothing, a flea-bitten muffler up to his eyes, concealing his face. Sydney, though a bit surprised, still had that unnerving calmness to notice – calmly – that the so-called Revolutionary was actually Roger Cly in disguise, recognized by his pale, fishy blue eyes and tall (though he was crouched) stature.

"What, citizen," said La Guillotine's bitch, the executioner, annoyed. "Do you stop this execution?"

The crowd screamed, Out with him! He's delaying the executions!

"Citizens!" he yelled over the tumult. "This man over here –" he pointed at Sydney "–is not the traitor Evrémonde, but an imposter! He switched places with Evrémonde, and the likeness between them was enough to deceive us all!"

There was a shocked and angry buzz at this. The knitting women's steady fingers halted. Sydney was effectively knocked out from his dreamlike state and was in shock, chagrin and panic spreading in his veins.

"Let us examine the prisoner!" shouted the executioner and the officers brought Sydney up to the platform. Sydney's heart pounded loudly in his chest, and he looked surreptitiously about the crowd. Damn it, where's Barsad when you need him? Fear coursed through him – fear of rescue, that is. _Darnay must live…he must_. Because of Lucie, that is. For Lucie's sake. Yes.

"Bring in Monsieur Defarge," suggested Cly, looking very sly, a gleam in his eye, and Sydney wished that he would fly. Stupefy! "He's seen Evrémonde. Let him be the judge."

The crowd screamed, Yes! Bring in the Citizen Defarge! and Monsieur Defarge was presently brought up.

"Citizen, is this the traitor Evrémonde?" said the executioner.

Ernest Defarge scrutinized him carefully; his eyes widened in shock and recognition. Sydney's heart stopped, sinking to his navel.

"It cannot be," Monsieur Defarge whispered savagely. "This…is not Evrémonde. He's that man who came into my shop that other night. Yes, I recognize him now! The likeness is uncanny."

"I saw Evrémonde going out the main road out of Paris!" Cly confided excitedly.

"Guards, find Evremonde! Stop every carriage going out of France!" the commander of the troops ordered.

The crowd screamed, Sniff out the traitor! We want our show! We hate quotation marks!

"Where is Thérèse?" cried the Vengeance, her high, shrill voice reminiscent to Bellatrix Lestrange above everyone else's. She was staring all around her, an empty chair by her side, with Madame Defarge's knitting sitting on top of it. It seemed awfully lonely and melancholy without her talon-like nails stroking the apparatus while she put more people on her death registry. "She should be here to see this, this injustice!"

"Now," said Cly, "all we have left to do, while Evremonde is hunted, is to guillotine the two - " He looked, but the places where Sydney and the seamstress had stood were empty. "-traitors," he finished weakly and lamely.

"Leave them," Monsieur Defarge ordered impatiently. "He's not important. Evremonde is our first priority."

They all agreed and left the executioner there, alone with La Guillotine.

"Well," said he, looking at La Guillotine, grinning a wolfish grin. "Looks like you won't get no wine today after all. Tough luck, mate. Better luck next time."

La Guillotine said nothing. As per usual.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sydney and the seamstress were hidden in what it seemed to be the safest place in the world – under the platform, surrounded by bloodthirsty and wild revolutionaries.

"It all proved so useless," he said quietly to her. "Cly knew…and Barsad probably escaped or told him about it. My sacrifice would have been so pointless. I would be better off living and making sure they don't lay a finger on Darnay." Not that he particularly cared about Darnay much. The love and loyalty he felt for Lucie was still there, but it seemed different somehow and Sydney, like most men, was at a loss at why it changed…

"They won't," the seamstress assured him, smiling gently. "For I will be by your side, helping you in your endeavor." Then, as though she had realized the boldness and presumption of her statement, she cast her eyes down. "That is, if you wish it," she added quickly.

Sydney looked into that sweet, young, gaunt face, starved with hunger, and yet it still possessing vestiges of what was once a charming beauty. Then, in a wild, spontaneous whim that would have made Romeo Montague proud, he made his wild, spontaneous decision. He cupped her chin gently and made her look up.

"My dear," he said. "I wouldn't miss the opportunity of having you by my side for the world. I'm only afraid of you wasting your life beside me." For even though Sydney was prepared to sacrifice his life for a rival that he was jealous of and a woman whom he loved but didn't love him back, he still had his insecurities and his self-deprecating manner.

"Waste it? Never," declared the seamstress passionately. "With you, dear kind sir - "

"Sydney," said Sydney. "Sydney Carton."

The seamstress paused. "Sydney, then. I would go with you to the ends of the earth."

And with that they kissed, looking for all the world as though they were in a romantic comedy (only it had murder, politics, conspiracy, oppression, poverty, and blood – loads of blood), Tchaikovsky's _Romeo and Juliet _playing in a very maudlin fashion in the background of the revolutionaries, who had decided to rid themselves of their aggression by killing each other off. And Sydney felt, for the first time ever, as though he'll never be alone again. Of course, there was one thing left.

"After all this time," he said after they separated, rather sheepishly, "I've never once inquired your name."

"Then I'll give it to you." The seamstress smiled brightly at him. "My name is Lucie."

* * *

**A/N:…Be honest. Who saw that coming? *Sees no hands* Oh, was it too obvious? Man…**

**Well, hoped you liked this one, even though it was a mite difficult (not as much as the last one; this one I had written down quite awhile ago) to write as I **_**do **_**support this ship. With all the fervor of my very being. What can I say? Sydney and the seamstress had a SPECIUL CONNECION, LOL!!!!!!!1 Yes, I am no good at this Internet jargon. Seriously. I'm not. But you get the idea. Ah, Dickens...**

**So review, please! (Oh, and eventually I will have a real Sydney/Lucie, and I hope I do it justice because I hate that pairing. With all the fervor of my very being. Because really, Lucie is a little blonde dunderhead and Sydney is a sexy, honorable, wonderful character – he doesn't deserve someone in the likes of Lucie! In any case, I will have fun in bashing that pairing. Also, there's a mite possibility of a Defarge/Manette, Darnay/Defarge, and Madame Defarge/Miss Pross. Hey, don't look at me like that...) **


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